


w(e)ary heart

by euphemea



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Acceptance, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Post-War, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:15:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphemea/pseuds/euphemea
Summary: “Do you miss them?” Ingrid asks finally. Best to be straightforward and kick down the door to Felix’s myriad of repressed emotions. He’ll never own up otherwise.“No,” he replies, immediate, denial high in his voice. After a moment, his shoulders sag. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	w(e)ary heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kayisdreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/gifts).



> This was a raffle commission prize for Kay for Long Live Zine's fundraising drive! She requested post-war Ingrid + Felix friendship, and I, being me, found a way to turn it into melancholy. Thanks for requesting this! 
> 
> Also a shout-out to [Elliot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes), as always, for beta-ing for me.

The servants’ entrance door drops shut behind Ingrid with a thud, and she makes her way across the grounds to search for Felix.

Today, they gave Lord Rodrigue’s spirit a proper burial in his home. A final rest after months of being trapped in torment, a proper send-off after waiting for the war to end. Though his body will lie forever at Garreg Mach, his soul has been returned to his family, now freed to its ascendance into the stars. 

Felix, for his part, saw fit to walk out as they lowered Lord Rodrigue’s ceremonial coffin into the family plot, vanishing before Ingrid or Sylvain could chase him down. As the new Duke Fraldarius, he has an obligation to his father and to his people, one he willfully shirked in choosing to hide. He left the newly-crowned King of Fódlan to handle the grievers for him—not that Dimitri said anything, either during the ceremony or after. 

Now, three hours later, with the sun setting, the lesser nobles and citizens have dispersed, finally granting Ingrid a respite. Dimitri has retired to his guest chambers to rest early ahead of his return to Fhirdiad. Sylvain is likely off gallivanting in the nearest tavern. A nighttime lull settles over Fraldarius Keep. 

Felix, meanwhile, is missing. 

It falls to Ingrid to find him. She’s not his keeper, but she is his friend. 

It’s obvious where he must be, now that she has the chance to search. Felix will deny it in the morning that his eyes are bloodshot and red—that he, too, needed a chance to say his goodbyes to his father—but he’s always been more predictable than he thinks he is. He bleeds emotion and dyes himself in worry, even when he has only the most callous of words. There’s only one place Felix would go. 

Ingrid keeps her steps light as she approaches the Fraldarius family burial grounds, and she walks quickly to its southwest end. Her suspicions are confirmed as she turns past a row of faded headstones, all engraved with feathered spears. Felix stands at the far end of the cemetery, surrounded by speckled granite and wilting grass, a lone figure of vivid Fraldarius teal. In the half-lit Wyvern Moon twilight, he makes a haunting figure. 

“There you are,” Ingrid says, exasperation seeping into her voice. “You left His Majesty and Lord Tiberius to handle the crowd, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Felix says, but doesn’t turn toward her. His shoulders creep higher, defiant. “They’re more than capable of handling the throngs of people who came to pay respects to an empty coffin and an empty grave.”

“You’re the new Duke.” She comes to a halt beside him, toe-to-toe with the freshly-turned dirt where Lord Rodrigue’s coffin was lowered earlier today. 

“And my uncle is better suited to be one.”

“Neither His Majesty nor Lord Tiberius see it that way. I know you don’t want to dodge your responsibilities to the two of them, or to your people.” 

Felix does not reply. Instead, he stares unyielding into the space between Lord Rodrigue’s headstone and Glenn’s beside it, as though daring their spirits to confront him. Ingrid suspects that he’s unaware that he’s even doing it. 

Ingrid reaches out and touches Felix’s arm. “You can be a good Duke to your people, and a good friend to Dimitri at the same time.”

Felix flinches at her words, but doesn’t shrug her away. “Of course I can.” 

Ingrid drops her hand and rolls her eyes, turning to their left at Glenn’s grave. It’s been six—no, closer to seven now—years since she was last here. Since before the Officers Academy, a lifetime ago. 

“Hey, Glenn,” she murmurs, almost soundless. “I have some new, cool scars to show you. Got one of them protecting Felix at Gronder. You’d smirk if you heard the fit he pitched afterward.”

As has been the case for nearly half Ingrid’s life now, Glenn does not reply. Ingrid closes her eyes, and the image of Glenn’s faces blurs, fragmenting at the edges. The shape of his eyes and the curve of his posture fade a little more with every passing day. That knowledge hurts less than it used to.

It’s easy now to stand here, steady on her feet above where Glenn is interred. Once, it was suffocating, the world dark and pushing in from all sides, her grief threatening to decimate her the same way the Tragedy destroyed Glenn. After an unending war and a thousand souls claimed by her lance, the air is just that. Her heartbeat does not stutter as she exhales, low and steady. Ingrid isn’t sure she likes the change.

Eventually, Felix speaks. He does not look up. “Why are you here?”

She turns to him. “It’s getting late.”

His gaze flicks for a moment toward the dying streaks of purple and orange emanating from the horizon. “It is.”

More silence. Felix crosses his arms.

“Do you miss them?” Ingrid asks finally. Best to be straightforward and kick down the door to Felix’s myriad of repressed emotions. He’ll never own up otherwise.

“No,” he replies, immediate, denial high in his voice. After a moment, his shoulders sag. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Ingrid looks at Glenn’s grave and pushes down the knot forming in her throat. “I still miss Glenn every day.”

“Of course you do. You’ve never let it go.”

“And _you’ve_ never let yourself properly grieve,” Ingrid throws back. Felix opens his mouth to retort. “I know you still keep his spur with you, even after all this time. Don’t deny it. The Professor told me once, over tea.” 

Felix’s jaw snaps closed again with a click. He looks away and snorts quietly. “So what?”

“They’re—they _were_ your family. You don’t have to pretend their deaths didn’t affect you.”

“I’m not pretending anything,” Felix says, still refusing to meet Ingrid’s gaze. “I just don’t see the value in exalting their deaths and refusing to move on. The dead are dead; they desire nothing. The living have far more pressing needs.”

Ingrid nods once. “That’s true.” She places a hand on Felix’s shoulder and turns him toward her, holding him in place. “But don’t avoid my point. You’re allowed to grieve as much as anyone else. It’s okay to miss them.”

“There’s not even anything here to miss—! Not for either of them. The old man’s at Garreg Mach and Glenn, Glenn—” Felix’s voice breaks. He shudders for a moment before schooling his expression into its usual frown. The corners of his mouth tremble, ruining the image of cool stoicism.

“I know,” she says, and squeezes gently. “I know. It pains me every day, too.”

“These graves—they serve only to comfort the living. They’re a mockery of the dead,” Felix spits, blinking rapidly.

“Are they? I think it’s nice to have a place to go to remember them. Maybe Glenn and Lord Rodrigue aren’t with us, but coming here reminds me that I’m not the only one who misses them. That I’m not the only one who is trying to remember that they lived and that they stood for something.”

“My father stood for the wrong things, and now both he and Glenn are dead. They’re dead, they don’t care if you—or Dimitri or _anyone_ —remembers them or not.”

“That may be true, but it matters to me.” She studies him. “It matters to you, too.”

“I—I…” Felix flounders. Ingrid keeps her gaze steady, unerring as he tries to conjure a lie to distance himself from the disgrace of admitting honest emotion, but he comes up short. He clicks his tongue and looks away, deflating.

Ingrid sighs. “Felix.”

“What.”

“Come here,” she says, and she pulls him into a hug. He makes a noise of protest and stiffens as she wraps her arms around him. She pats him on the back, firm but soothing. “It’s okay if you need to cry. I won’t look. You can grieve.”

Ingrid doesn’t comment as Felix inhales sharply, sniffling. “Rodrigue—Father… he died as he lived, and he got what was coming, worshipping chivalry as he did.”

How typically Felix. Ingrid snorts lightly. “It’s still okay to miss him. He wasn’t perfect, and he died for something you don’t believe in, but he was your father anyway.”

Felix’s last bit of resistance falls away, and he drops his chin onto Ingrid’s shoulder. He raises his arms to hug her back. 

“He was,” he says at long last, his hands wrapping more tightly into Ingrid’s coat. “He was,” he repeats, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Ingrid rubs small circles into Felix’s shoulders. She keeps quiet as he breathes heavily, barely holding back gasps. Her collar dampens, and she tightens her grasp. 

She’s here. She’s alive. They’re _both_ alive, and so are their friends, even though they lost so much along the way. They have the space now to truly grieve, with the war finally over. There’s time for the brighter future they’re building. 

Eventually, Felix’s hold slackens and his breathing evens out. Ingrid steps back and takes his hand in hers. They return to their vigil, two souls bearing the weight of those no longer with them.

They stay. No spirits whisper comforting words, no revelations for the future of Fódlan strike them—nothing happens but the deepening of the night air’s chill. But it’s nice, for the moment, to imagine that Glenn and Lord Rodrigue look kindly back at them.


End file.
